Broken Compass
by sandysoul
Summary: SLASH. Norrington is in trouble and Jack can save him, or damn him.
1. Prologue

_**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out and never posted here. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read. It is also complete, and I will post all the chapters as I finish going over them in the next couple of days._

_(Sorry about 'Seven Thunders,' it's on hiatus.)_

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**__**Prologue**_

The file of marines that jogged through the door, rifles at the ready, changed the atmosphere of the tavern as quickly as a squall breaking across the sea. Pirates and smugglers who had been trading blows sat down meekly side by side, eyeing the common enemy with suspicion. The sudden silence was broken only the sound of a bottle rolling across a table, sending a merry stream of alcohol across the wood before it fell to the floor with a tinkling crash. A few of the cannier scoundrels and whores edged furtively toward the back door, only to be turned back by a second incoming tide of bright red coats and shiny bayonets.

Captain Jack Sparrow, cannier by far, merely leaned back in his chair and took another swig of rum. His eyes were, as always, dark-rimmed and shadowed, his exotic face crowned with dread-locks, beaded and tangled braids. Those black eyes narrowed with speculation as he recognized many of the soldiers from his unfortunate time on the _Dauntless_. When Commodore Norrington himself stepped briskly into the Old Sea Dog, Gibbs gaped and started up instinctively, but he settled back down with a cough when Jack shot him a look. His captain's mind was already brimming with calculations and escape plans. _First things first,_ Jack thought cheerfully. _What the devil is the good commodore up to?_

It was a surprise to see him here. After Jack's brilliant and daring escape from Port Royal – more amazing every time Jack retold it, and truth to tell he could hardly sort out the embellishments from his memories by now – Norrington hadn't pushed the chase. The _Black Pearl_ had sailed from the Jamaican harbor without a shot fired from the cannons, and Jack hadn't caught a whiff of British determination since. Of course, he'd been busy elsewhere, chasing the silver in the hold of a Spanish treasure ship before retreating to British waters so as his crew could spend it all in time-honored piratical pursuits. No harm meant. But here was old stiff-upper-lip, walking into a pirate den as if he owned it – _with all them pretty red coats at his back, mebbe he had a point_ – Jack conceded privately, striding up to his table like the thunder of God out to get a sinner.

"Commodore, what a pleasant surprise," he began but the naval officer cut him short.

"On your feet, Sparrow."

"Ah, so I'm talking to the king?" Jack smirked, but he rolled to his feet with a flourish and a yawn, managing to fling his arms out and stumble, as though he were three sheets to the wind.

Norrington watched Sparrow's antics with barely repressed impatience, noting the dagger in his boot as well as the pistol thrust through his sash and the sword on its wide leather belt. Once the swaying pirate was facing him again, more or less, he grasped the smaller man's chin with his left hand and stepped close. Sparrow heaved back, apprehension spreading across his face, hands fluttering wildly at Norrington's arms, his entire body hauling and pitching and communicating lewd and ludicrous astonishment. Ignoring this vigorous non-verbal protest, Norrington held Sparrow's face motionless and leaned close, close enough to feel warm, rum-soaked breath, his right hand coming up and his thumb rubbing against the corner of Sparrow's eye.

At this, the pirate went still, so still that Norrington wasn't sure he was breathing. Sparrow stood like a rock except to close his eyes when Norrington swept a thumb across the curve of his eyelid. His thumb came away clean of paint or powder, and Norrington looked back at the unsmudged dark lining of the eye with a grim sense of triumph. If he needed any more confirmation it was standing in front of him – the pirate, still uncharacteristically motionless, staring back at him without a word. The vaguely familiar grizzled sailor who'd been sitting at Jack's side was looking from one to another, confused, and his marines' determined silence spoke volumes about their conviction that he'd lost his mind, but it was clear that Sparrow had understood the significance of Norrington's gesture immediately.

"I believe we need to talk, Captain Sparrow," he said, and was proud of his level, unemotional tone. Not a trace of fear. Sparrow shied his chin free of Norrington's grip, backing smoothly, that dark look still fixed on him. Norrington wondered how that stare had become so very unnerving, until he realized that the pirate who had chuckled during his own execution was oddly, entirely, empty of amusement. Putting his hands behind his back, Norrington clasped them tightly to keep them from shaking, hoping his own face showed nothing but the confident discipline of the Royal Navy.

"Aye, mate," Sparrow finally replied. "A parley it is."


	2. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N: **This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read. Also, if that doesn't squick you, there's a minor character death in this chapter. And no, James Norrington is not a minor character, no matter what the bloody mouse thinks._

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**__**Chapter One**_

Commodore James Norrington of the Royal Navy removed his heavy blue uniform coat and folded it neatly before laying it on a flat rock next to his hat and wig. His cravat, vest, and shirt followed. After drawing off his boots and stuffing his silk stockings inside, he hesitated with his hands poised to unbutton his breaches. He would prefer to bathe in the nude. But his weapons lay with his clothes, and his last defense was a sharp dagger lying against the small of his back, the sheath sewn into place in his waistband. It seemed foolish. He was about to swim in a sunny, sheltered bay with the most powerful ship in the region hardly more than a stone's throw away. He could hear the cheerful, hoarse calls of fishermen hauling and caulking their boats around the other side of the headland, and a gull sailed serenely through a sky that was a palely envious reflection of the perfect blue beneath. Shaking his head, he undid the first few buttons then paused. Snorting, and a little redder than the blistering sun could take credit for, he refastened his breeches and ran into the shallows.

Lukewarm, salty water rushed over him, refreshing, soothing. The noises of the shore receded into the pounding heartbeat of water pressure against his ears. Unlike most navy men, James could swim, and he crossed the bay with powerful strokes, rising through the sparkling surface to breathe and diving through the clear water to touch white sand at the bottom. Now he kicked and splashed into the shallows, now he swam out past the headland until he could feel the tug of the surf, now he kicked downward, lungs burning, and grabbed at a colorful shell, only to find as he popped back up to the surface that the colors were dimmed by the air. After a good long stretch he returned to shore, shaking hair from his face and grimacing at the clammy hindrance of wet cloth and gritty sand. The heated smell of hibiscus filled the air from the nearby jungle as the sun climbed, but he still had time before he had to return to his duties. Reaching the rocks, he stretched out to let the sun dry him enough so that he could return to the ship decently clothed, and change his salt-crusted breeches for a fresh uniform.

The hot rock and sun felt wonderful, and this was the first real rest he'd allowed himself in months. His drowsing mind ticked over the many things that needed to be done before the _Dauntless_ returned to Port Royal: the carpenters finishing their work on the hull, watering – only a few tons more – hauling out and washing the sails that were starting to mold in the humid Caribbean sun. Minor things, housekeeping really. He dismissed them lazily.

But then there was the disappearance of those fishermen. Three had gone missing now, one a boy scarcely past his twelfth year. One of his sailors, too, had gone missing, although he suspected that the man was simply hiding somewhere with a woman until all the hard work was done. The fishermen, though...one had left his clothes in a heap above the waterline one night and may well have drowned; the others, father and son, had disappeared from their boat, which had drifted, unmanned, back to shore with the current. Nothing that couldn't be explained, but nevertheless, three fatal accidents in such a small settlement in less than a month was unusual. The fisherfolk muttered and called out strange words –_ aycayía, aycayía,_ one of the women had moaned – some superstitious nonsense from the slaves and savages, and he dismissed it; but still, although he saw no real reason for alarm, he had slept uneasily these past few days, been a little more cautious than usual. Maybe this swim would help him relax.

There was always paperwork to distract him – then the rendezvous with the expected East India Company ships and the slow convoy back home. Home, where further worries waited. The debacle with Sparrow and the undead pirates had to be unraveled. His official letters painted it in the rosiest – and most believable – colors that he could square with the truth. He had emphasized the capture and execution of Barbossa's vicious crew, downplayed Sparrow's role in the destruction of the _Interceptor_, making his escape seem less important. With the Governor's support, he might still have something left of his career. The slow bureaucratic process and the slower passage of men and mails over the sea gave him time, and if he was very lucky, they would run across pirates as they escorted the convoy home. A good fight and a thankful Company...his thoughts drifted into calm and he dozed.

He was never certain later what woke him. He turned, the damp that had been trapped beneath his body palpably evaporating into the heat of the air, his back stinging with sunburn, and opened his eyes to see a girl on the beach. There was no time to blush for his own exposed skin as he took in hers; not a scrap of cloth covered her, and only her matted brown hair, brushing against the curve of her bottom, gave her a hint of decency. She was seated side-on to him, resting her chin on her hands and looking out to sea, her skin cinnamon-brown, her thin feet crossed in front of her. He sat up, the motion attracting her attention, and she turned her head as she rose gracefully.

Any thought he had of retreating or stammering out an apology caught in his throat as he registered the _strangeness _of her. This island – La Ninfa – was an insignificant speck in the Caribbean sea, rocky cliffs which seemed to exist solely to encircle the strip of velvet jungle leading down to rocks marooned in lumps along its two tiny, sandy bays. A stream of fresh water, spurting from inside the cliffs and winding its way to the larger bay's salty lagoon was its prime attraction for seafarers, and it hadn't been until the last few years that this convenient spot for a rendezvous between ships had become home to a few fisherman's shacks and a herd of goats. This girl was no fisherman's daughter – they wore clothes – and he would swear that no native fancy-piece for one of his sailors, stowed inside the _Dauntless_ until now, could have escaped his notice. She stood there brazen, like a whore, and he caught the sheen of pearls and feathers tangled in her hair, and a glint of gold around one wrist, once he was able to pull his gaze away from her full bosom and the naked curve below her waist. Her face was sharply boned, full-lipped. James stood, brow furrowed and hair drying in salty spikes around his face, as he tried to comprehend the basic impossibility of her.

She smiled slowly, glancing down his body in unmistakable appraisal, and his thought never quite got finished. Spinning lightly, she ran down into the rushing waves, and cocked her head back over her shoulder, her lips curving into a secret invitation once more.

James had been a long time chaste. At first, he hadn't wanted to give Elizabeth Swann any cause to doubt his affections, and then he found that the humiliation of her rejection bit deep and sour through his amorous inclinations. But now his blood rose quickly, the holiday spirit of this lost morning filling him with a desire for mischief, for a little fun for once. Elizabeth faded from his mind. This girl, whoever she might be, was plain in her offer and his mouth quirked into a boyish grin as he ran down to the shore after her. She stood knee-deep in the foam and let him catch her, her body smaller and thinner than he had guessed, pressing eagerly forward as he bent low to kiss her. Then she had somehow broken free, dashing a few feet further into the surf. Laughing, he chased her, and they gripped and broke, ran and splashed, through the incoming tide.

Somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that in spite of her bronze beauty, her skin was – just maybe – a shade green, almost unhealthy, and the brown of her hair took on a grayish tinge when the sun hit it. The thought tattered into desire. Once when he caught her about the waist, she spun into his embrace with a shriek and he was looking straight into her large brown eyes. Momentarily, he thought that she must paint her face, too – her eyes were encircled by deep green lines, somewhat like the black kohl loose women used to bait men to their beds. No innocent, this one, and he was glad of it. Something about her tugged at his mind, some familiarity, but she undulated against him and he lost track of his uneasiness once again in the urgency of pulling her to him, getting her down into the wet sand.

Once more she twisted free, and he grunted with exasperation, tired of the game, but she reached for his hand and led him until the water was up to his waist, deeper, water lapping around her breasts in a way that made his throat go dry with need. She dove, still holding his hand, and he dove after her, seeing the image of her body softened as if behind blue glass. Just as he started to kick upwards, wishing for air, she doubled back and grabbed his head with both hands, kissing him fiercely. He struggled, trying to free himself without hurting her, and felt something twist around his legs, pinning them together with terrible strength. Frightened now, he struggled in earnest, the coils around his lower body squeezing him, sinuous, her mouth on his nightmarish, her arms tightening around his chest mercilessly. He flung his head back from her, gasping helplessly, and his head cleared as the water rushed easily down his throat, into his lungs, unexpectedly beneficial. He drank it in until his muscles no longer burned for oxygen and saw her face, her mouth open in a grin that revealed thin, pointed teeth, teeth like a cat's, or like the small Amazon fishes he had once seen strip a cow to its bones within seconds.

For a moment he went limp, terrified as he had never been in his life, with her changed body tight against him, her face within inches of his own, her cloud of hair drifting like seaweed in the water, green-bronze skin sharp against the blue. He was breathing harshly, water sucking in and out as though it had become his native element, and now the ocean was not silent. All around him, echoing through the depths, was an eerie music, utterly alien and inhuman, some notes distant and distorted, other sharp and near. The intervals rose and fell without any pattern he could recognize, but their weird echoes woke physical sensations within him, sounding the drums of his ears, bringing him one second to the edge of tears, the next to wild laughter, melancholy and wild and filled with incomprehensible meaning. The frozen moment seemed to last forever, as locked together they moved deeper with the current, until he looked beyond her shoulder and saw Lieutenant Gillette.

The sight was so bizarre, his terror so great, that it shocked through his awareness with the clarity of a landscape illuminated by lightning: Gillette was lying on the sandy white bottom, his eyes wide and staring, meat ripped away from his ribs and legs, ripped to the bone with bloody, tattered flesh and clothes swaying in the tide. His lieutenant had gone out that morning with the ship's master, sailing a boat around the reefs to take soundings and chart the island's shores thoroughly. He had been alive, that morning. Surely, he was alive yet, his blank stare and mutilated body some trick of the light in the water. Even as his mind tried to reject the sight, his body received the message. He kicked and twisted against the thing holding him, fighting for his life. He shouted incoherent watery curses before remembering his knife, the long dagger tucked into its sheath in the small of his back.

It sliced beneath her ribcage, a glancing and shallow cut, but she recoiled immediately. He kicked frantically backward, bringing the knife up in front of him, every move slowed by the drag of the water, too slow. She was in front of him now, beautiful, savage, the graceful coil of her long tail glinting, fanned out at the end into a delicate, silver-veined fin. Her hair framed her face like a halo and her body was impossibly a woman's, its generosity curving down into cold and bloodless scales. Her skin darkened into the green-shadowed pools of her eyes, hauntingly familiar. He kicked back again, his knife held before him, and suddenly she moved. As quick as a school of fish darting from a threat, she shot away from shore, fading quickly into the dim light. It was only then that he became aware of the shadow passing over him, the launch from the _Dauntless_.

The boat crew pulled him on board gladly and slapped his back as he expelled thick mouthful after thick mouthful of seawater. They asked him, anxiously, if he was well, marveling that he hadn't drowned, so long he must have been under, they hadn't seen him. They heard him stammer out the news of Gillette's death, once the shock and pain of breathing air had subsided, and confirmed it, the abler hands diving from the boat until they could see down far enough, returning wide-eyed and shocked. They got him back on board his ship, got him warm and clean, gave him a shot of whiskey from his stores to stop the shaking, made him rest in a stifling cocoon of blankets.

Sometime during the night he woke, sweaty from dreams where blood and sex had lurched sickeningly through his visions. As he woke he thought he heard the music from beneath the waves echo again, near him, a rising phrase without any resolution, filling him with a desperate wish to find the next chord, the dying fall, to end the suspense, to drown it in the soft touch of alien hands...it was maddening, and he shook his head angrily, fighting it away. Cool air hit his face, and with a shock he realized he was standing on the _Dauntless_' gunwale, holding on to a stay, a step away from plunging overboard. The mid watch officer was staring at him out of the corner of his eye, not sure if naval procedure allowed him to comment on a commodore's sudden wish to climb around the ship by the light of the moon. Every other sailor on deck was deliberately not looking at him. Embarrassed, shaking from the aftermath of dream and desire, he stepped back and nodded cautiously to young Mr. O'Brian, who nodded back with relief. The Commodore stepped quickly back to his cabin.

By morning, he had become intimately familiar with the barbed hooks in his soul and body which pulled him to the sea, the endless unresolved song in his ears, the face of a monster constantly before his mind's eye, seductive, unrelenting. But by morning he had orders for the crew that set the _Dauntless _flying in pursuit of a new goal, a decision to which he held with the force of despair: to find a pirate, to find him as fast as possible, for no one else could help him.

It was likely that the pirate couldn't either, or wouldn't, but it was the one slender thread of hope he had. For the mermaid, with her shadowed eyes and tangled hair, had reminded him strongly of one Captain Jack Sparrow.


	3. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

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**__**Chapter Two**_

"Might wanna go easy on that, Commodore," Sparrow said, pursing his lips and wrinkling his nose. Norrington ignored him and downed another swallow of brandy. He was still civilized enough to prefer the finer spirits, and was proud that he was using a mug rather than simply pouring it down his throat from the bottle, but he had to admit that he'd lost count of how many times the dawn light had found him passed out on the floor these past few weeks. It was easier, so much easier.

The _Dauntless_ was cruising through the night-dark sea, and wind permitting they would be anchored at La Ninfa before noon the next day. Norrington had used every marine at his disposal to surround Sparrow at the Nassau inn and, far more threatening to Sparrow, left the half-manned _Black Pearl_ facing his ship-of-the-line across the harbor. A thin force – no sane commander would have placed his forces in so vulnerable a position to capture a single, rumored target in a hostile town. It could easily have gone wrong. But he'd succeeded, winning back his crew's confidence. He'd overheard the mids arguing over whether he would hang the pirate from a yardarm or drag him back in chains to Port Royal – they had already come to the conclusion that Norrington had run mad from his broken heart and decided to hunt down the pirate chiefly responsible. Seemingly, such romantic insanity had raised him in the estimation of the younger sailors.

However, Sparrow was now his guest and not a prisoner. Tonight he would occupy a cot slung in what had been Norrington's dining cabin, much to the amazed disgust of his officers. Norrington glared at the smirking face of the man seated on the lockers under his stern window and took another drink. Sparrow shrugged elaborately, conveying his total lack of concern.

"Not sure what you're expecting from me, mate," he went on. "Don't fancy my chances against one o' them, and can't say I'm all that willing to try it for the sake of His Majesty's bloody navy. 'Case you haven't noticed – you and I? We're _enemies_."

"_Hostes, homnes_, I mean, _generi_ – " Norrington gave up on the attempt to flatten Sparrow with a clever Latin tag. "You're on board _my_ ship. I can have you hanged, you dirty pirate."

"Didn't I have your very own word of honor that you wouldn't be doing any such thing?"

Norrington frowned. That was an extremely good point. Wait – ha! "I promised not to arrest you if you promised not to – I mean, to help me," he pointed out triumphantly.

"Which is the very thing I'm asking you to clarify, if the brandy's left you capable of thought. Rum is better. I always think better with a little rum in me," Sparrow said, leaning back against the window and tapping his lips with a forefinger.

Damn, Sparrow was winning the argument again. He wasn't all that sure what the argument was, anyway. He was tired. Very tired. "You have to stop this. I can't take it anymore," he whispered, not sure he'd said it out loud, not sure if he was praying or begging or talking to Sparrow, or all three at once.

Jack Sparrow sat up straight with a jerk, those frightening eyes intent on the drunken commodore. "Eh, now, what's this? You said attacks – something about me stopping attacks on the little fishermen, not a thing about what you can't take."

"Ha! That's what you know!" Norrington finished his mug with a flourish and laid his head down on the table, content with his victory. A second later Jack was pulling him up by his hair and slapping at his face.

"Sir, no man of honor will take a blow," Norrington muttered, and Jack hit him again. "Stop it already," he added in something closer to a whine.

"Commodore, I need you talking now," Jack said in his ear, _much_ too loud. Uncivilized brute. "Commodore, did you lie with her?"

"I beg your pardon," he said. Blinking he looked up at the pirate, warm and muscled against his side. The thought crossed his mind that the warmth felt nice, felt dry and strong and entirely unlike fish, and maybe it would be a good idea to have Jack sling his cot next to his own tonight. As a distraction. God, he was drunk. "I do not spread stories about ladies. Or monsters," he frowned and then added firmly, "Not maids."

"Damn it, you bloody – listen to me, Commodore. I need to know if you tupped her. It's important, you poxy dog," Sparrow growled, shaking him.

"No," he whispered, wishing Jack would let him sleep. There was music he didn't want to hear. "No. Kissed her and she pulled me under. Going to be sick," he added thoughtfully.

Sparrow got him up and they stumbled out onto the stern gallery, where he tossed most of the brandy to the waves. Panting, he folded his arms on the rail and put his head down, refusing to look at Sparrow again. If that smelly, facetious pirate said one word...he looked sideways over his arm. The pirate was staring out over the wake, hands twitching as though in time with his thoughts, and Norrington puzzled tiredly over why he wore his hair in such close imitation of the mermaid he'd seen. It couldn't be admiration, could it? – or was it defiance, a thumbing of his nose at both sea and land? Sparrow spun without warning, grabbed Norrington's arm and hustling him back into the illusory privacy of the great cabin.

"Thing is," Sparrow said companionably, "ladies the likes o' her can be hard to forget, savvy?"

Norrington sighed, one hand rubbing his eyes. "Yes, so I have found." His head was much clearer except for the pounding. "If you find her, I can – stop her. Kill her if I have to. For Gillette..." he trailed off.

"Mm. Thing is, she's not likely to come out and fight on shore like a man, and down there she's definitely got the advantage."

Norrington pushed both hands against his aching temples and wondered what had happened to his wig. "I fought her off once."

Sparrow looked at him sideways. "She let you go, mate, and after she got her hooks into you, eh? She knows you'll be driven back. Go down there, you won't be coming back up." He stretched and threw himself down full-length on top of the lockers. "Might a' been saving you for later, not being hungry at the moment." Norrington fought back a rush of nausea. "But even if we get a hold on the slippery gel, it's not like she's done me any harm."

"Do you not feel any pity for those on whom she preys? Or are you – are your loyalties in conflict here?" He spoke softly, hoping his tone lacked any offensive quality. He really wanted to know.

There, the quick gold-toothed smile, Sparrow's eyes sliding away, less than candid. "No loyalties to any save meself, Commodore. There is no male of the species, you know," he said conversationally.

Norrington kept his silence until Sparrow went on, restless movements reflecting his discomfort in the subject. "It's why they come to shore, sometimes. To mate, see? And they have girl-children. Mostly. Almost always."

He blew out his breath. "And if it's a boy?"

Sparrow grimaced. "Leave 'im on the shore." Apparently that was all he was going to say, the silence stretching until Norrington stood and suggested that they both turn in.

Much later, still awake in his cot, he went carefully over Sparrow's revelations, the subject helping him to resist the chuckling water caressing the other side of the hull. He wondered how the infant had survived – found, raised among some woman's children? Incredibly lucky, to survive at all, but then Sparrow had always had luck in spades. And what did he expect Sparrow to do, come to that?

He had searched for him for weeks, as he sank from tight-lipped stoicism into drunken denial, as he became more and more frantic. Too, reports had reached him from La Ninfa of continuing deaths, of fisherfolk deserting their island in their tiny unseaworthy boats or begging passage on the merchantmen, trying to pay in fish. Sparrow's thieving trail had led loopingly through the Spanish Main before the report had come that he was heading north – a reliable report.

The angry captains of the HEIC convoy he'd abandoned off La Ninfa, having made their way to Port Royal unescorted, had had a great deal to say about his sudden unreasoning hunt for Jack Sparrow. Norrington had barely noticed the storm of disapproval, too much occupied with his deadly struggle and his one hope. Even Governor Weatherby Swann's speech on moderation, political prudence, had passed over him unnoticed. The weather and uncertainty about Sparrow's exact whereabouts had made the short trip to Nassau last more than two weeks, but finally, finally, he had run him to ground – with La Ninfa only a brief voyage to the east. This evening, with Sparrow on board at last, he had thought the battle was over, the solution found.

Apparently it was nothing of the sort.


	4. Chapter 3

___**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

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**Chapter Three**

"Good morning, sir," Lt. Groves said, his eyes demurely forward as his commanding officer came onto the quarterdeck.

"Groves." Norrington's reply was curt – damn, this sun was bright – and his mind uneasy. Groves was speaking soft and low. There was no indication of whether it was to humor his hangover or his incipient insanity, but no doubt everyone on board knew he had drunk himself into his cot again.

The _Dauntless_ was cruising along the coast of tiny La Ninfa, headed for the double bays which opened to the south. Norrington carefully kept his eyes on Lt. Groves, his thoughts deliberately focused on the nautical details of running his ship.

"Sir," Groves began, hesitant, "Captain Sparrow suggested this morning that we anchor east of La Ninfa – of the village, that is – out of sight of, of well, the smaller bay." The lieutenant's voice dropped slightly at the last word. Lt. Gillette's gruesome demise and the master's disappearance had grown with every telling, and the common sailors had taken to exchanging knowing, grim looks each time it was mentioned. Bloody Cove, they called it, not bothering to decide if it was a name, a description, or a curse.

"The Royal Navy does not take suggestions from pirates," Norrington snarled, and then winced in pain. "Nor is there need to consider what we can or cannot see. We are here to offer defense and passage to those under British protection in response to the pleas for aid reported by the East India Company. We will anchor in the main bay."

He turned at the sound of hands clapping. "Beautiful, Commodore – really, the most pompous thing I've ever heard you say, mate. Passage, protection, pleas – do you write this up in the log?" Groves choked, coughed, and looked straight ahead as Jack Sparrow joined them. "All of which is no more than to say, you'll be anchoring right where I'd 'ave you be."

"But not at your suggestion, Sparrow."

Much to his annoyance, Sparrow only nodded solemnly, as if they were in complete agreement. He stood beside Norrington, surveying the deck, hands clasped behind him. Norrington stepped forward, checking the trim of the sails, and Sparrow stepped with him, hands still clasped in what Norrington suddenly realized was a mocking parody of his own stance. He glared at the pirate and took a few steps aft, hands dropping to his sides. Sparrow watched with the most innocent curiosity before returning to his survey. Unexpectedly, the Commodore fought back a laugh – bloody bugger, but he was funny.

"Captain Sparrow?"

"Aye?"

"As my guest, would you care to join me for breakfast?" There, plenty of icy sarcasm, but in a nice way. Almost friendly, entirely suitable for a recognized enemy being temporarily helpful and unfortunately on board his ship.

Sitting across from Sparrow at breakfast, he realized that his queasy stomach probably couldn't take a display of piratical table manners. He braced himself, keeping his eyes on his plate as his servant brought in the dishes of bacon, kippers, marmalade, soft tack, and eggs, but an unavoidable glance across the table as he reached for coffee surprised him. Sparrow was eating daintily, neatly, as if he sat at a gentleman's table every day of the week. Catching him staring, the pirate flashed his treasury smile.

"I believe I've settled on our strategy, mate. That is, if yer willing to take the suggestions of a pirate, mull it through under that pretty wig," a circling motion from one hand, "and spout 'em back out as yer very own navally proper orders."

It occurred to Norrington with a great deal more surprise that Sparrow must have picked up at least a marginal education somewhere along the way – enough, in spite of that ridiculous compass, to navigate his ship. And such table manners weren't common among – well, among the common.

"Commodore?" Sparrow waved a hand before his nose and he started.

"Sorry. I was woolgathering. What?"

"I was saying, mate, that I've got a _plan_." Surely it wasn't necessary to address him in a tone suited to the deaf or moronic.

Norrington roused himself to join in a spirited discussion of Sparrow's plan – if it could be called that – trying to hold his own against the blend of nonsense, cunning, and insulting dismissal of his own suggestions that Sparrow considered proper strategy. At the end of nearly an hour, they finished the remnants of breakfast and the argument, and Norrington stretched, leaning back in his chair. He felt oddly at ease, better than he had in weeks, and he watched tolerantly as his guest finished his demonstration of polite behavior by thumping his nauseatingly soiled boots onto the table. Uncouth or not, Sparrow was certainly distracting, and his continuously rumbling voice somehow soothed the ache of music and madness that had driven Norrington to this point. Still, no reason to let him know that.

"So. Am I expected to hold back with my men, trusting you to fulfill your end of the bargain?"

"Not at all, Commodore. I expect you to be right there with me, savvy?"

A blink at the unexpected concession. "Right...on the shore?"

"Unless you can breathe underwater I'm thinking that's for the best." Norrington reddened – that morning, head clearer than it had been in weeks, it had occurred to him to wonder if he could indeed still do that. Sparrow had walked in on him just as he'd pulled his head back out of his washbasin, sputtering and choking. He'd left him slumped against a bulkhead, crying weakly with laughter, and gone to speak with Groves, face dried and back iron-stiff with outraged dignity. Damn the man, he was laughing again.

"Can you?" he snapped. Sparrow pursed his lips and shrugged, which might have been an admission or an evasion or entirely unrelated to the conversation. Norrington closed his eyes, dredging up what self-control he had left, and said, "Very well. Shall we go, then?"

Springing to his feet, Sparrow spread his arms as though embracing the moment. "I'm with you, mate. Don't forget the colors." He stumbled out of the cabin and Norrington followed with a heavy sigh.


	5. Chapter 4

___**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

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**Chapter Four**

Jack stood on the white sand and pretended to be deep in thought, ignoring the poisoned glares he was getting from the Commodore. As far as he was concerned, their small camp and its supplies were fine the way they were, and if a certain stiff-rumped officer didn't think it was good enough, he could do the work himself, the bugger.

His _Pearl_ was out there somewhere. If Norrington was telling the truth, she was well on her way to Port Royal, under the command of the sodding marines and the flag of the British Empire. He had Norrington's word that once they were done here, Jack and Norrington and the _Dauntless_ and all the king's men would head back to port as well, and he and his crew would be free to go – s'long as they all swore on their honor as scallywags and pirates to leave English ships in peace. Jack balanced on one foot, wondering dimly what Norrington thought that was worth.

Such a surprise of a man, really. He'd as much as admitted in that velvet voice of his that he'd let Jack go, after that little display by sweet William and darling Lizzie. Hadn't chased him down until he had to – there was such a haze of misery and desire coming off him now that Jack was amazed he was still on his feet, much less that he had continued to sail the ocean for this long without literally drowning his sorrows. The figurative drowning probably helped, but alcohol or no the man was at the end of his rope. Rope. He'd reluctantly confided to Jack that before taking to drink he'd tried rope – something about that chap Ulyssie – but hadn't been able to secure himself firmly enough and had been unwilling to ask for help.

Norrington had taken the suggestion that his fair captor might have been hauling him off to the larder well, all things considered. Jack decided not to mention that she might have taken a fancy to him instead – much the same in the end, but at least there was a grand tumble on the beach before you ended up as fish food.

The object of his thoughts came up behind him, buckled shoes too soft on the sand to be heard. When he spoke, Jack jumped. "Lt. Groves has – are you all right, Sparrow?" he snapped.

"Just startled me, mate. I was fathoms deep."

Norrington grimaced. "As I was saying, Groves has set up the cordon around the village – what's left of it. And there are marines and sailors stationed to keep anyone from approaching, sea or land. Not that the locals need any encouragement to stay away from here."

Stuffy, sticky, prickly, snappy bastard. Jack was really enjoying teasing him, shoving him off balance, getting under his skin. Too much of a temptation to see how long he could go before the uniform cracked.

He had beautiful eyes, though. Green enough to rival Caribbean waters, deep enough to drown in. And Jack had caught the spark of anger as his sailors watched Jack sway, climbing down from the _Dauntless_, the way those green eyes followed when he thought no one saw – oh, the Commodore wasn't entirely indifferent to him, whatever he wanted to think. Would probably come in handy. Usually did. He stuck his tongue out in distaste. Norrington raised his eyebrows and pointedly ignored him. The Commodore had the loudest way of being silent about things.

"First things first, eh? What about lunch, now?"

"Indeed. Thank you for volunteering." Hmph. He returned up shore to the edge of the jungle and began banging about under the tiny canvas tarp pulled tight between two trunks, pulling out all the carefully arranged supplies and strewing them about. After a few minutes, he slid his eyes back toward the beach, to see how well Norrington was taking it.

"Hey! Ahoy there, look out...oh, bloody hell." Jack gave up yelling and hopped forward, pulling his boots off as he went, dumping coat and weapons above the line of the surf. Leave the man sober and unoccupied for two seconds and he was off. Even as Jack felt wet sand under his feet he saw the commodore reach deep water and dive.

Underwater, surrounded by the sea's familiar briny cradle, Jack swam to where he'd seen Norrington go down. There – floating slowly, eyes closed, no struggle. With a final shimmy and twist, the tips of Jack's fingers reached one boot. Hauling himself forward, he tugged. Norrington's eyes flew open and he kicked listlessly, nowhere near strong enough to dislodge him, a thin stream of bubbles coming from his mouth. Hand over hand, he pulled at Norrington's uniform until they were floating face to face, but now the other man was choking, losing control, the body's desire to live countering the deadly force that had dragged him here. Jack grabbed his head firmly in both hands, briefly cursed Norrington for kicking him in the shin, and kissed him.

Oh. Oh my – _well_ now. Jack had kissed him on pure instinct, having never tested his own abilities in that direction, and now he could only regret the years he'd missed of kissing people underwater. Brighter, somehow, cleaner, all his muzzy intuition focusing into sharp knowledge. He could taste – hear? – the compelling song running through James' mind and changed it easily, then breathed just – yes, like that, and knew that James shared his breath now, before shifting deeper into the color and sound and sensation that was James, touching and tasting and letting himself meld into it. Rigid duty, bright troubled honor, an underlying pool of gentle strength – when James wiggled his hands between them and shoved, hard, the break was almost painful.

Heavy now, both of them, water replacing the buoyant air in their lungs, and they slowly drifted downward. James was staring at him with a curious mixture of fear and relief plainly written on his face. Jack shrugged and jerked his head toward the depths. He'd planned to find James' mermaid after lunch, but no time like the present, seeing as they were here. As James hesitated, he grabbed his hand and pulled, which seemed to scare him a bit more – odd – but with a hard swallow and a nod he swam after the pirate. Brave man.

They might have saved themselves the trouble as it turned out. Jack swam past the hard edge of submerged island and down, methodically quartering the area without success. At one point they passed the wreck of a ship's boat and a skeleton cleaned white. Realizing who it must be, Jack swept by it quickly. They swam until James tugged hard at his hand, his face grey with fatigue. Jack immediately changed direction, kicking and swimming back to land. As they reached the surf James let go and stumbled onto his feet, falling back down immediately as he vomited brine, lying limp in the shallow water long after he'd readapted to the air.

A beach fire, a hot meal, and a dry change of clothes did wonders but James remained quiet and withdrawn as the quick tropical night fell over their camp. Jack poked at the fire and tried to work out what point the _Pearl _was likely to have reached by now. Despite this he couldn't help glancing at James from under his eyelashes every few seconds. James got tired of it and barked, "Do you have to stare?"

"Just wondering how you're doing, thassall." Jack peered up at the stars to emphasize his total lack of interest in anything more personal.

A long sigh. "I am –" Another long silence. "I believe I owe you thanks. You seem to have broken the spell."

Jack burst out laughing. Norrington glared. "What?"

"Just the word 'spell,' mate. Never thought of it as magic, meself."

James frowned. "Then you've – you've done that? Made people..." he trailed off, unable to find a way to express it, but clearly disturbed.

Curious bugger. None of his bloody business, any of it. "No." The silence returned, and after a bit Jack added grudgingly, "Didn't know I could cure you of it, anything like that," one hand waved off shore, "either, just kind of did it."

"Ah." James stood jerkily, kicked at one of the duffle bags Jack had left rolled in the sand, and bent to rummage inside it. He came back with the bag and a bottle of rum which he handed to Jack before sitting down with a grunt.

"There's hope for you yet, Commodore," Jack breathed, taking a long swallow before passing it back to James. A few companionable drinks later, he was fortified against the inevitable prying curiosity. But once more James surprised him.

He snorted softly – Jack promised himself that one of these days he was going to make that man laugh out loud – and indicated that Jack could keep the bottle, resting his head back against the duffle bag. A few moments later only the moon and Jack were awake, and Jack soon decided the moon could look after things on her own. Stretching his body into the sand along the Commodore's side, he went to sleep.


	6. Chapter 5

___**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

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**Chapter Five**

Norrington woke up feeling wonderful. For a long moment he lay there in the hard, scratchy sand, the sun shining into his face with total disregard for his rank and comfort, something rough and warm and rather smelly curled hard into his side. It was as if he'd been seriously ill, and had awakened to the return of health and energy. The surf slapped playfully at the beach below them and he had not the faintest desire to plunge into it.

He craned his neck to see Jack, who was snoring softly, one leg thrown across Norrington's knees, the rum cradled against his side, his forehead shoved firmly under his companion's arm. Norrington looked thoughtfully at him, an unexpected fondness shifting through his contentment with the morning, only a faint prudish protest against Jack's over-familiarity surfacing. However, he did need to relieve himself. Badly. He untangled his legs gently, nonetheless waking an unappreciative Jack. Unhappy, sleepy pirate curses followed him into the edge of the trees.

Jack had regained his habitual good humor by the time they ate. Breakfast was cold biscuit and the end of the rum bottle, which seemed to please him as much as the elaborate spread from the day before. The inevitable argument seemed to please him too.

"Why bother? Haul what folk are left off and leave her be, then. If she isn't in a mood to listen things could get bad fast. Since you've got yer fine self all settled now, thanks to me," Jack leered comically and James turned red, "set sail and don't look back, eh mate?"

"Nonsense," he answered harshly, refusing to acknowledge how Jack had 'settled' him, although he was grateful, certainly...yes, grateful, if uncomfortable. No longer feeling fond of Jack at all. "This...menace is killing British citizens, British sailors. _My_ sailors," Norrington said. "This island is British territory." To his disgust, that just made Jack roar with laughter.

"Do you know how much sea there is here, Commodore?" He waved a biscuit, apparently including the entire world. "The ladies down below aren't fussed about who owns a bit of dust here or there. Just good places to catch men. Your _territory_ is smack in the middle of a whole lot more of _their_ territory, savvy?"

Norrington opened his mouth and then closed it. An immediate protest against idea that anyone would regard the British Empire as too insignificant to bother with rose in his breast, but Jack had a point – there was a great deal more sea than land. It was a startlingly different view of things. He shook his head.

"Irrelevant. I still have a duty to those under my protection, land or sea. If this – native – is harming citizens, it is clearly incumbent on me to stop her."

Jack, finished with his meal, rested his arms on his knees. "Aye, protect citizens – them as you consider worth protection." He flicked his fingers dismissively before Norrington could interrupt. "All with the might of the grand English Navy. But consider this, mate," he leaned far forward, dark eyes intent, "do you really want to pit your _sea power_," an insulting drawl, "against theirs? She's got friends, too, you know. There might even be an underwater commodoress, I daresay. Give up the island, take me back to the _Pearl_, everyone's happy."

Standing and brushing the sand from his breeches, Norrington looked beyond Jack and in a tight voice said, "It seems we are to continue with your plan, regardless." Jack twisted about. There on the rocks at the edge of the bay, he saw the green-brown face and matted hair that Norrington had described, adorning a mermaid lying on her stomach with her chin on her hands. Her tail was in evidence today, looped and coiled over the flat face of the rock with its broad fin dipped over the edge to splash fitfully in the waves, her eyes on the two men.

"Ah!" Jack leaped clumsily to his feet and bowed extravagantly in her direction before swaying confidently toward the rocks. Norrington stooped to pick up his sword belt, buckling it about his waist as he followed slowly. He wished he'd dressed properly before breakfast – he was in shirtsleeves and without his wig. No time now to fix it. Jack was already talking nineteen to the dozen, hands flying in illustration, body dancing in subtle counterpoint.

" – and so I thought perhaps we could have a word, jest a friendly word, as between cousins, you and I. Can't say how I appreciate your coming up here for a chat, it being more convenient for us land-types." He grinned ingratiatingly.

The expression on the mermaid's face was annoyed, slightly contemptuous, and Norrington bit back a laugh. Did everyone react to Jack Sparrow in the same way? At that moment she had an uncanny resemblance to Governor Swann on the docks the very first day Sparrow had come to Port Royal – he had stared at Jack with just that mixture of astonishment and disdain.

"Cousin," she said, and Norrington was taken aback. Somehow he hadn't thought she could speak. But she was perfectly comprehensible, although she had a strange, liquid accent. "I came to claim my property."

Jack looked surprised and then deeply worried. "Ah, that. That was...something I meant to bring up." He sniffed, assuming a haughty air, and looked down his nose at the recumbent maid. "You see, as he was mine, in the first place, mine was the claim before yours, if you follow me." With a start, Norrington realized they were discussing him. Jack's property?

Her eyebrows arched. "There was no mark on him."

"Customs differ." Jack shrugged. "Here on land, as it were. I didn't think he'd be taking a bath with you lot. My apologies, I really should have taken care of it. I'll mark him right away."

"_Jack_ – " Norrington hissed, unable to let this go by without protest, but Jack only patted the air in his direction without looking.

"It was rude." Her level voice was disapproving, a contrast to her carefree, alluring beauty. She propped herself up on her elbows and both men's eyes dropped to her chest, then came back up quickly as she went on. "But I cannot expect a boychild to know how to behave." She glanced scornfully down Jack's body – possibly at his legs – and flipped her tail hard, sending a spray of drops over them both.

Jack hurried to change the subject. "The thing I really wanted to discuss, would be this island." He swung his arms wide to indicate the island and almost hit Norrington in the nose. "Bit unusual, isn't it, hanging about the land like this? The occasional shipwreck is one thing, and the occasional roll in the sand is another thing, and the occasional unwary fisherman is something else – " Jack lost himself in his list and started over. "Thing is, we were wondering why you were here."

"The hunting is good." She smiled, showing all her sharp teeth, and Norrington gripped the hilt of his sword, hard. Jack laid a warning hand on his arm.

"Yes, of course. But have you considered, perhaps, that you might be over-fishing the waters? People scurrying away in their little boats, and men getting all antsy – like to bite back, one of these days, nets and harpoons and all." The maid's face darkened, and Jack rushed on. "Not meaning that in any way a threat mind you, friendly warning, that's all. As from a cousin," he added quickly. The tail twitched in irritation and sprinkled them all with seawater again. "And we thought, my mate and I," Jack squeezed Norrington's arm, "that perhaps we could make a deal."

Her mouth twitched into a tiny, grudging smile, then she sighed. "And you offer me what?" Norrington, feeling useless, looked from her to Jack. Jack's plan had sounded utterly insane on board the _Dauntless_, but here, faced with a monster who seemed to look on Jack as a lesser relative – deformed and clumsy, perhaps, not too bright, but still part of the family – he decided that he was better off leaving the pirate to negotiate.

Jack held up one finger and announced triumphantly, "They boil eggs. A dozen at a time – I've seen it, love." Norrington winced with the expectation of embarrassment.

"_Boiled_ eggs." The mermaid swung her tail around and swayed erect, a motion that was something close to sitting up. "What are you asking in return?"

"One bottle of the water used to boil a dozen eggs, all yours," said Jack. "In return, you leave this island to its people, and agree to keep your friends from hunting the British."

Much to Norrington's shock, the mermaid seemed to take the proposal seriously. She and Jack began to haggle over the terms. After a few minutes, realizing that the negotiations would take some time, he sat down on the sand, listening to Jack and the maid barter back and forth like fishwives on market day.

" – four bottles is an outrage – " " – cannot tell others what to do, cousin – " " – very well, if a ship _wrecks_ all bets are off, love – " " – all British, everywhere? No – " Norrington dug a toe into the sand and thought about Andrew Gillette, remembered his quick but often unkind wit, his unfailing dedication and courage, the bottomless store of off-color jokes he brought out after a drink or two, the letter Norrington had had to write to his parents. Then he stared at Jack. The mermaid, he thought, wasn't trying to seduce, but sexuality hung about her like heavy perfume, hard to ignore. He was realizing slowly that Jack's excessive charm, the licentious thoughts he inspired in near everyone he passed, must be a legacy from his mother, and the thought disturbed him. Perhaps because he had to admit that he too spent far more time thinking about Jack Sparrow than was proper.

Listening to him talk was a pleasure. His resonant voice in counterpoint to the maid's musical burble, his drunken motions with their own crazy grace, his quicksilver charm, appealed to something warm and deep, deep inside of James. Running a finger through the sand between his feet, he thought about his time as a midshipman – before exalted rank brought with it a private cabin – and sounds in the dark near him. He thought of whispered, sniggering, red-faced stories of what the common tars got up to between decks and the times that an offer, veiled but unmistakable, had been made to him by his fellow men. He'd never felt the slightest interest. Sailing in the Mediterranean, as he'd done most of his youth, shore leaves and brothels had never been far away. Even on his longest voyages, he'd preferred what solitary satisfaction he could find, never tempted by the dark, sticky whispers. He thought of them now, and of Jack Sparrow, and his groin tightened eagerly. Oh, dear God.

"Done." Jack performed his ridiculous undulating bow, hands pressed together. Norrington started and got to his feet, his face flame red, hoping that his condition was either unnoticeable or that Jack would put it down as the maid's influence, not his own. The pirate turned to him, eyes sparkling, and said in a terribly serious voice, "She agrees to the terms, as far as she can – for her people, her king and country, as it were. 'Fraid it's going to cost us, mate. She'll not do it for less than two full bottles."

"We must endure the expense," Norrington managed to respond dryly. He noticed the maid's smug expression and fought back inappropriate laughter – when had he started finding the world so amusing? – and nodded his head curtly in her direction.

"There is one problem," the maid said, not bothering to acknowledge him. "How am I to know the British from the others? If I am close enough to speak to one," she gave them another toothy smile, "I am already hungry."

"I thought o' that," said Jack, with a certain smugness of his own. He dashed wildly back up to their small camp, throwing sand with every barefoot step. Norrington and the maid snorted in unison, much to their chagrin, then kept silent until Jack return with a folded piece of heavy blue and red cloth. "Have you seen these, love?"

The mermaid scooted forward, dragging her tail behind her, and peered at the colors. Jack obligingly shook it free of its folds, and as he spread it she cried out in recognition. "Yes, I see those. On ships, and on their homes."

"They use them to identify each other," Jack explained. "This one, red and blue with the lines like this, means British."

"They can't tell each other apart, either?" the maid asked absently, fingering the banner. Jack ignored the question, explaining to the maid that she could keep it to show others how to identify the British, and chafing Norrington into helping him refold it. In the end it was wrestled into shape and bundled into her arms.

"We'll bring the bottles here tonight then, seeing as we don't carry such wealth about in our pockets," Jack sniffed. Norrington bit back another laugh.

"Until then, cousin," she said, and slid backward from the rock to the sea. Norrington ran out to the edge of the rock and was just in time to see her tail flash and slither beneath the surface, a quick glimpse of her, swimming with the flag swirling about her slender body, and then she was gone.


	7. Chapter 6

___**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

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_**Chapter Six**_

"Hah!" Norrington turned, his eyes dazzled from the sun on the water, and saw Jack dancing a kind of mad hornpipe in the sand. "_Exactly_ as planned, mind."

"No doubt that is a rare enough occurrence for you to warrant celebration," Norrington responded, trying to sound reproving. It sounded more like repressed laughter.

Jack set his fists on his hips and did a quick heel-and-toe. "Notice I did more than you asked, mate," he said. "Bit o' protection for all your little islands – and some o' your natives and slaves, too, if that means a sodding thing to you." A high kick overbalanced him and he fell on his bum. "So you can return me to my _Pearl_, eh, as promised?" he continued calmly.

Norrington dropped down beside him. "Tomorrow. Once this piece of insane nonsense is complete. Must I now order my men to prepare eggs?"

"Taken care of." Jack laid back and closed his eyes. "I begged a few bottles from Cook before we left the _Dauntless_. Advantage of everyone thinking you're mad, see," Jack opened one eye a crack and looked up at James, "people help you do the oddest things, long as it seems harmless."

"Why boiled eggs?" Norrington finally exploded. "What possible use could it be to them?"

"Dunno, mate. Seen it before, though," Jack murmured, and yawned.

"Oh." Norrington had realized quickly, even through an alcoholic haze, that Jack hated questions about his connections to the sea, and he choked back the desire to ask him what he'd seen, when and where. A polite impulse, indicating more respect for the bizarre man than he would have believed possible. Jack fit into no neat category but he was easy company, ignoring the restrictions of class, religion, and law so entirely that they seemed not to exist. Amusing, quick-witted, and better educated than he was willing to let on – 'that chap Ulyssie,' indeed.

Not knowing what to say, Norrington kept his peace, and was rewarded when Jack continued dreamily, "First one I ever saw, back years ago," a long pause. "Spent a few months divin' for pearls off Otaheite." He fell silent.

"You would have a certain advantage in that trade."

"Oh, aye. Always went jest a little further, little deeper. Not too much, mind you. But I'd go out on me onesie when I could, wif' no one around, explore. Found one, or she found me, guess you could say." Norrington watched Jack doze for awhile, listening to the surf and the gulls and feeling ridiculously content. Eventually Jack opened his eyes and rolled on one side to stare back at him.

Norrington cleared his throat. "Ah – do you trust her to keep this bargain?"

A shrug. "Mebbe, mebbe not. They're about as trusty as the English, you could say."

Two raised eyebrows at this, and a glare. "Then they are honorable."

"Aye, as honorable as trading beads'n'liquor for land to people what don't have any notion what you're about, or breaking treaties wif savages."

Norrington opened his mouth and closed it again. Was Jack daring to suggest that he had just played the part of a savage, trading in ignorance with a superior race? And his slur on the Crown was completely unjustified. It was the savage natives who broke the treaties, refusing to recognize English ownership of the land. Surely honor applied equally to all – surely if the natives traded away their lands, they could be expected to honor the deal. How could anyone not understand ownership of land? It was the basis of all civilization.

"We give honor where it is due. We bring civilization and protection to those without, cultivation to the wilderness – we better the world." He spoke harshly, knowing full well some of the uglier consequences of colonization. Unavoidable, mostly, but ugly.

Jack gave him his gilded grin and said only, "As for me, mate, all I want is enough sea room to chart me own course." He rolled lithely to his feet and headed toward their camp. Norrington followed, still angry and defensive, unwilling to let the argument go.

"Those with understanding and religion have a duty, to instruct and save those less fortunate."

Still no answer.

"Naturally, being a savage yourself, you have not the sense of responsibility that could be expected from a more logical being," he said, petulantly taking refuge in sarcasm. Jack stopped in his tracks.

As Norrington drew level with the him, he caught a glimpse of Jack's expression and realized he'd gone too far. He'd never seen Jack genuinely lose his temper. The black eyes deeper than ever, the stern mouth – the person usually hidden behind flounces and furbelows flashing out. And with the anger, hurt. The expression was gone in an instant, washing from Jack's face and leaving it blank and smooth. Without a word Jack turned to shoving together wood to make a fire.

Apologetically, a silent Norrington gathered a pot and a sealed jar of Cook's stew, spending more time than strictly necessary to chip the wax free and pull out two plates and two iron spoons from their limited mess kit. He hadn't really intended to give offense. Jack never _took_ offense, philosophically cheerful in the face of any reverse, swimming upstream through hostile pirates, forbidding navy officers, even braving the hell of women scorned, letting personal insult sail by as he concentrated on whatever lunatic priority was his at the moment. He'd known Jack a short time, but under intense circumstances of opposition and alliance, and he'd come to think of Jack as a kind of natural force, insensible to more ordinary emotions.

They ate lunch, shaded by canvas against the blazing tropical sun, and the temperature between them was icy. About halfway through his stew, Jack began muttering to himself, making faces and sneering at his spoon. Norrington took this as a good sign.


	8. Chapter 7

_____**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

**_

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_Chapter Seven**

Jack watched Norrington out of the corner of his eye, unwilling to forgive him yet. Not that the damned lubber had asked forgiveness. Only to be expected, o'course. Jack never minded a hearty shout of 'bastard' – mostly, weren't a reference to his parentage, anyway – but Norrington was the first in years to know the more interesting bits of his background. So calm and polite he'd been about it up to now, Jack had almost forgotten to be on his guard. Bastard. An' he weren't referrin' to Norrington's parentage, either. Years, since he'd confided in anyone. Not that he'd confided in the Commodore. Not exactly. To be dismissed as a savage pirate was different – he'd _worked_ for that distinction. Jack dropped his spoon on his empty plate, left them both on the sand for Norrington to clean, and stalked off along the coast.

Climbing the rocks to round the headland brought him in view of the fishing village as well as a marine standing guard. It was one of the pair he'd met on the dock at Port Royal – Murtogg or Mullroy, he forgot which. The ginger one with the smaller half of their brain. Jack coming up from _behind_ him when he was supposed to keep people from going _past_ him was a puzzler, but they got it straightened out eventually and Murtogg – no, he was pretty sure it was Mullroy – offered him a cigarillo and they sat together on a rock while he smoked it.

"Tell me, son, you ever find sentry duty boring?" Jack began carefully.

"Not all the time, sir – er, _Sparrow_," the marine said with a frown, remembering that Jack was a pirate. Then he remembered that Jack was the Commodore's guest and smiled, "Captain. Most of the time, Murtogg is here, and we tell stories." The infamous pirate seemed interested, and Mullroy swelled a little with pride, knowing that he'd be in a tavern soon, casually coming out with, 'I was talking to that pirate Sparrow the other day...' Eager to keep the conversation going, he went on, "Like the story you told us that day on the _Interceptor_. Murtogg tells it better – "

"And soon you'll be telling the story of how ol' Jack Sparrow dashingly saved yer brave commodore, in the very nick o' time, from – ah, but here I'm forgetting meself." Jack shook his head and laid one finger on his lips warning. "We're not to be speaking of such things." Mullroy stared at him in confusion, his mouth slightly open, and drew breath to speak, but the pirate went on smoothly. "His Majesty's marines being too clever to tell tales, tho' no doubt ye know more than you would be telling." Here Jack gave him an incredibly knowing wink before taking another puff.

"Not at all sir, we _do_ tell tales, like I was saying..." Mullroy stopped, not quite sure whether that made him clever or not. "And all I know about this island is that there's some kind of monster. They say maybe you can stop it, like you made those dead pirates alive again so we could kill them. _Then_ the Commodore can hang you." He paused. Maybe it wasn't polite to talk to a man about his upcoming execution. "Not that I mean that at all personally, sir."

Jack's face fell, and he looked up at Mullroy with much the same expression as a whipped puppy. "Seems a bit bloody unfair, me coming to the rescue again and all." Mullroy had to think about this for a minute, although it was hard to think clearly when wearing his heavy uniform in the sweltering heat. They'd gotten _into_ the fight with Barbossa's crew _because_ of Sparrow, so did that count as a rescue? Or was this the _first_ rescue? He couldn't call it rescuing them again if this was the first rescue. Although Miss Swann was mixed up in there – oh, and he'd rescued her, too. It did seem to be an awful lot of rescuing, one way and another, so it might not be fair to hang him.

"Commodore Norrington has to hang you," he finally said, doubtful about the metaphysics but certain on this point. "Because you're a pirate. But you might escape again." Wait. There was a problem with that, too. "Only, that might get the Commodore in even more trouble."

"Don't tell me he's in trouble," Jack said, eyes wide with concern, leaning in a bit closer to Mullroy and stubbing his cigarillo out in the sand. "Now, he's a bloody fine officer. That seems a shame."

"Oh, it is sir!" Mullroy said. He leaned his musket carefully against the rock and wiped sweat from his face. Everyone on board the _Dauntless_ was concerned about this, and even a pirate shared in the general worry. If only the Admiralty could be convinced. "No court-martial yet, because there aren't enough ranking officers here, but they say he'll be broke the service for losing the _Interceptor_. And that Mr. Beckett, the Company man, he's mad as fire that the Commodore left them to sail through pirate-infested Caribbean waters without an escort. They do say, when the Commodore brings you in, things will look up." Mullroy looked around – not a soul in sight – and leaned forward. "The Company would be mighty grateful to the officer who catches Captain Jack Sparrow." He nodded firmly.

"No doubt," sighed Jack, "an' such is the reward o' degenerate piracy."

Mullroy shifted uncomfortably. It did seem a shame. Inspiration hit. "Here," he said, proffering his tobacco pouch. "No, no, you keep it." The pirate gave him an elaborate bow, hands pressed together in prayer, and Mullroy hoped that wasn't blasphemous.

"My thanks, son." Jack wavered to his feet and glanced casually out to sea, past the _Dauntless_ to the white sails curving toward La Ninfa. "And who would that be, I wonder now?"

Glad to know the answer to this one, Mullroy said, "That's the _Mercury_. Lt. Groves said this morning she was coming in for water, but we'll have to warn her off. Unless the monsters are gone."

"Ah." Jack waved casually and headed back over the rocks to the Bloody Cove. Mullroy jumped to his feet, since this was what he was there to prevent from happening, but Jack managed to convince him that those who _came_ from restricted territory had to go _back_ to restricted territory and not out, since that would mean the territory was no longer restricted, with people going in and out as they pleased.

It seemed to make sense at the time.

Jack meandered over the rocks, the growing breeze whipping his hair, turning right at the last moment to make his way through the jungle instead of returning to their camp. Mad as he was – in the irate sense of the word – he didn't believe for a second that the Commodore would deliberately break his word. But he'd been worried from the start – he wasn't at all certain that Norrington, in his fevered search, had fully considered what would happen if he took Jack back to Port Royal and then set him and his beloved _Pearl_ free. Odds were against him getting away with that. And the temptation to turn on Jack would be nigh irresistible.

Jack kicked moodily at a tree and then bit back a howl, hopping and holding onto his bare toe. It was a marvelous distraction from the wholly indefensible sadness that this idea caused. Pretty James might be...it had been a mistake to kiss him, certainly, although he had to chalk that up as a new experience. Intriguingly tasty, but it had blindsided him with its intimacy. No call to be getting that far under anyone's skin, no call to be getting to know someone's insides just because they might have pretty outsides. He stood in the dark green shade, lecturing himself. _It led to disappointment, see? Stay faithful to the Pearl, that lovely lady (well, bit of a whore with bloody Barbossa, but still a lady) – tumbling a navy man being a fine and dandy thing but why the hell did you let him get to you?_ Haven't tumbled him, either, he mused, ignoring his own lecture as easily as he'd ignored many others thrown at him over the years. By the time he made it back to their camp he was deep in thoughts of long pale limbs and soft brown hair.

The brilliant smile he lavished on James Norrington confused that already off-balance gentleman considerably.


	9. Chapter 8

___**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

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_**Chapter Eight**_

After Jack had stomped off, Norrington had resignedly started scrubbing the plates with wet sand, wondering how a highly placed officer had ended up washing dishes for a pirate. Leaving the camp in regulation shape, he donned his wig and coat and headed through the edge of the jungle to his pre-arranged noon meeting with Lt. Groves. A brief statement that the mission was almost accomplished – to Groves' obvious relief – an equally brief formal summary of the _Dauntless_' condition, which Norrington commented on with sober competence – also to Groves' obvious relief. Norrington asked if Groves had identified the ship on course for La Ninfa then returned to camp, disappointed to find that Jack had not yet seen fit to return.

Uneasily, Norrington considered his comment. Somehow, he couldn't imagine Jack demanding satisfaction, although the pirate was not without honor – and he would apologize, anyway. He'd clearly been in the wrong, making such a remark. More likely, Jack would find a bothersome and unanswerable means of revenge. Annoyance was his strong point. Norrington sat on the sand, his coattails spread out behind him, and picked restlessly at a loose thread on his stocking. Bored with that, he noticed Jack's effects tossed nearby. With a grunt of irritation, he stood up to shake out and fold Jack's coat neatly, arranging the hat and sword on top, noticing the compass in its worn wooden case fastened to the belt.

Curious, he picked up the compass and flipped it open. The card with its elaborate red arrow spun lazily and pointed east, along the path Jack had taken. Snorting derisively, Norrington snapped it shut and tossed it back on the coat. It was a continuing marvel to him that the _Black Pearl _ever managed to find land, much less the land Jack intended to find.

The breeze was picking up, soothing in this heat. Norrington took his glass down the beach to the rocks to focus on the _Mercury_, which had veered east. A fast fourteen-gun sloop with a letter of marque, often seen in these waters, under the command of a Captain Cordingly. Cordingly sailed just this side of piracy, as far as Norrington was concerned. Beyond the sloop's rigging, huge grey clouds were piling up on the horizon, lightning flickering here and there, the breeze coming stronger off the water all the time. Approvingly, he noted that the _Dauntless_ was in view – Groves had weighed anchor and was following the _Mercury_ in search of sea room. This island was no place to ride out a storm. The marines could shelter in the half-abandoned village and he wondered if he and Jack should move to do the same before it hit.

"Going to be a bad one, eh?"

Norrington lost his balance and dropped his glass, which shattered. Jack was standing there, looking at him with a wide smile and an expression of extraordinary brightness. Like an opera clown, all of Jack's gestures and expressions seemed larger than life, conveying volumes without a word, and this one sent a half-pleasurable chill down Norrington's back. What on earth was that pirate plotting now? "Drat. Thank you, Sparrow. That was my best glass." He bent to gather the broken pieces, effectively hiding his flushed face.

"Might as well call me Jack, us being so well acquainted now," the pirate said, turning his attention to the sky-full of failing light.

Norrington didn't answer, fiddling with the dented brass. After a moment, concern over the coming weather forced him to speak and take care of the matter. "I wish to apologize for the remark I made earlier. It was uncalled for," he said, aware that he sounded stiff and wooden but unable to speak more naturally to this perplexing man.

Jack kept his eyes on the oncoming storm, quietly watching it come nearer. "Y'know, mate," he said at last, voice so low that James had difficulty hearing it over the wind, "when Lizzie threw you over that day, couldn't help think that you took it with a rare grace." He turned, and his eyes were as bottomless as the dark sky. "And it's not everyone who'd be apologizing to a pirate. It's appreciated, Commodore." He didn't say more, not knowing how to put into words that it was Norrington's very decency – his embodiment of the best of the British empire – that led Jack to want to shake him up, force him to face the worst of the system he served. No purpose to it, only the knowledge that Norrington might understand, someday. He really hadn't expected the apology.

Norrington looked away, down at the pieces of brass and glass in his hands, then let them fall into the water below the rock. His thoughts, far from marching with military precision, were muddled and contradictory, much like Jack himself. There was an odd, half-shamed pride in Jack's assessment of him, his undoubted but unexpressed desire, a purely professional continuous calculation of the wind and waves, the frustration of not being on his ship to command her response to the storm, an exasperated nagging from the back of his head urging him to get them moving to the village before the weather broke, and a distant wonder at how comfortable a place the pirate occupied in his thoughts. The changing light and shadow as the storm rushed in lent a weird, flickering atmosphere to the bay, giving it a dreamlike feel, fey and dangerous, but bright, achingly beautiful. Jack was still, calm, watching him, and he felt as if he was about to find a key, cross over into a land that flickered at the edge of his nightmares and called distantly in his dreams.

"Jack, can you swim under a storm?"

The brief shock on the pirate's face gave way almost immediately to fierce joy, and Jack grabbed his hand, pulling him back to the canvas shelter, pulling off his shirt and throwing it down on his coat. Before James caught his breath from the rush across the beach, Jack was tugging his wig from his head. Coat and shoes and stockings followed quickly, Jack pulling the tarp from its moorings and tucking it over all. They weighed it down with stones, Jack chuckling as between the two of them they piled enough rocks on to keep it in place through a hurricane. Throwing one last volcanic stone on top, he stopped, looking questioningly at James.

The fey madness was still burning liquid under his skin and it was he this time that pulled Jack toward the waves, straight into the teeth of the wind. They splashed and stumbled through the powerful surf until the land dropped from beneath them and the sea knocked them off their feet. The water threw them back at the shore, resenting their intrusion but Jack slid beneath the waves and James followed, less certainly. A few fighting strokes down, Jack turned and slid his arms around James' naked torso, pulling him close and bringing their mouths together.

James met him without pretence, opening his mouth to the sweet taste, arms tight around Jack as the water turned warm and welcome in his throat and the alien element – still so alien, still deceptive – closed in and around him and they began to sink. The remembered music of the waves sounded again, but this time he could separate out Jack's distinctive melody, a syncopated rhythm with an endearingly human undertone, something that was not sea nor land but salt laughter, freedom and the pain that freedom would always bring. They clung, sliding hands and lips together, until the disturbed water flung them hard against the rough slope of underwater land.

Cursing soundlessly, Jack kicked against the waves, James following him deeper and deeper, until the swell and tumble of the storm was a distant, irrelevant thing. Together, they dove and sported, exploring the eerie dream world around them, sometimes only rocking in its embrace, wrapped tightly about each other's warmth. Much later, James had trouble bringing to mind the colors and shapes of that fantastical journey, although it haunted him in his sleep. It was endless, and it was no time at all before they were thrown on land, finally letting the crashing surf beach them under the last shreds of flying cloud at twilight, air and water alike surrounding them. James lay beneath Jack, welcoming the length of muscled body against his own, welcoming the gasps and wriggles and hot, clumsy movements that brought the music crashing to a resolution.


	10. Chapter 9

_____**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

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**Chapter Nine**

Wet sand and cold surf, although highly romantic, are highly overrated as a comfortable place to lie, and as the sky cleared Jack and James were gathering discarded, soaked breeches and hoping that their gear had weathered the storm. The waning moon, old but forgiving, shone amidst the stars in the darkening sky as they dug out dry shirts – no breeches, unfortunately – a few pieces of biscuit, and the bottles of egg-water. James rolled his eyes at these, and again when Jack unerringly found a bottle of rum, but the smile never left his face. They had been silent so long, without any need to speak, that Jack's voice sounded harsh, wrong.

"Company, mate."

Jack jerked his head toward the rocks, and James saw the mermaid. Not bothering this time to poke more than her head above the water, she spotted Jack as he walked toward her, bottles in hand. Just before he reached her he looked down and frowned, running back up to the camp to exchange the rum bottle for the second bottle of water, which James held out to him with a grin. They moved together to the shore.

"As promised, cousin," Jack said, and with his grandest bow, involving much writhing, he set the bottles down on the rock.

The mermaid looked sideways at James, head tilted, and said to Jack, "Didn't waste time, did you?" She rose up out of the water with a strong thrust of her tail and grabbed the bottles, sinking before either man could speak. A moment later, her head reappeared a yard further out, and she called, "Jack? Davy has been looking for you." With one last malicious grin, she dove. Against the line of moonlit sky they saw her leap clear of the sea, curling into a perfect arc. Then she was gone.

Jack looked blank, unhappy, and James asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Hm?" Jack blinked at him, focusing with difficulty on his face. "No. Nothing to worry about. Jest didn't know she knew me name, thassall."

James wasn't buying it. "Who is Davy?"

"Old friend." Jack laughed, but it sounded forced. "I think he might be lookin' fer what I owe him." He waved it off, but they had both become aware again of the distance between them, and as James built the fire back up he felt as tired and as old as the moon.

Jack drank, morose and uncommunicative, as James ate his small supper. Awkwardly, he cast about for a topic of conversation, but none came to mind. _We shall leave tomorrow_ sounded inane; _Are you anxious to return to the _Pearl was worse. The afternoon might have happened a thousand years ago, or to different people, but the world of officers and paperwork was equally distant. The _Dauntless_ had not yet made her way back and the night was silent, no sound carrying from the village across the headland to the isolated flicker of their fire. In the end, James shimmied into his clammy breeches and rolled his coat under his head, lying wearily down.

Sleep eluded him however, although his body was sore with exhaustion. He listened to the crackle of the fire and the rushing water, watching the shadow that was Jack bring the bottle to his lips or let it hang loosely from one hand. His mind raced feverishly through memories and fears, shying away from Jack only to return again and again as the fire died.

_Port Royal – there was no mark on him – incompetence – the scent of hibiscus – one day's head start – official sanction and reprimand – diving for black pearls – I serve others – Elizabeth hand in hand with Turner – didn't waste time, did you? – dark eyes, rimmed with dark lines – rare grace – dereliction of duty – you are a fine man, James – never thought of it as magic, meself – duty and honor – Davy? – a handshake on a crowded dock – aycayía, aycayía – music..._

He heard music. Jack was whistling softly in the dark, pure mournful notes in unexpected intervals, haunting, soothing. The sounds blended with the fire and the waves and wove through James' mind, and soon he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

A thin drizzle woke him, late in the morning, and he blinked up into an overcast sky, the metallic grey sheen of black pearls. And of course, Jack Sparrow was gone.


	11. Chapter 10

_____**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

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**Chapter Ten**

Jack Sparrow was gone, as was a fisherman's dingy, and the sloop _Mercury_. Explaining all of this might have been slightly less embarrassing if Mr. Beckett had invited him to sit. As he looked down at the Company man, Norrington was reminded of the day he'd watched his father's huge Rottweiler being chased from a favorite sunny spot by a spitting and hissing scrap of white kitten. Beckett, naturally, had no official jurisdiction over the Navy, but the influence of the East India Company was such that his prim invitation to summarize the events of the past few weeks could not be ignored. Governor Swann had insisted on accompanying him. A decent man, and a good friend, he was sitting by a window looking worried.

The _Dauntless _had made good time back to Port Royal, but the _Mercury_ had done better. By the time Norrington had reached port the sloop was innocently anchored, and the _Black Pearl_ was nowhere to be seen. Beckett's eyebrows rose into his hairline as Norrington reluctantly repeated the account he'd received from his officers when they'd arrived at Port Royal on a local transport some days later. Apparently the _Mercury_ had heaved to and exchanged news with the _Pearl_ off the Caicos Islands before sailing on. Shortly afterward, the captive pirate crew had begun complaining of fevers and headaches, showing the officers their long red tongues. They had quickly became too delirious and weak to work the ship.

His men, however, stimulated by their fear of the yellow jack, brought the _Pearl _into harbor in an amazingly short period of time, all twenty of them volunteering to go ashore in the longboats for medical help. The pirates left alone on board miraculously recovered the instant his men were clear of the ship's side, and the _Pearl _had been sailing out of the harbor before the sailors had reached the docks.

"I see." Beckett put the tips of his fingers together and looked over them at Norrington. "I see. Quite a series of misfortunes. Has the captain of the _Mercury_ been placed under arrest?"

Norrington hesitated. "Unfortunately, no one actually saw Sparrow board the _Mercury_, or leave it. Captain Cordingly's entire crew is willing to swear that he was never on board. We have no evidence."

"I see." He wished quite violently that Beckett would stop saying that. Rising from behind his desk, Beckett walked over to the French doors and stared thoughtfully out at the rain falling monotonously on the sea. Norrington had time to notice that his shoes had exceptionally tall heels. Governor Swann finally cleared his throat and Beckett turned to him politely. "Yes?"

"Is it true, Mr. Beckett, that you will be leaving for England on the _Swiftsure_ tomorrow morning?"

Beckett nodded.

"Perhaps then you would be kind enough to carry my reports." Swann fished a packet from inside his coat and placed it on the desk with a meaningful look at Norrington. No doubt the Governor's reports placed Norrington in the kindest light possible, and he swallowed hard; if his career burned to the water line, as it certainly seemed to be doing, Swann could be implicated for standing by him. Beckett tapped the packet with one finger and smiled kindly.

"Naturally, I would be delighted. May I however, beg of you a moment alone with the Commodore? There are certain matters I wish to discuss with him." The Governor stood and bowed, with as much dignity as he could summon after being so openly dismissed, and walked out of the room. Beckett said nothing, pacing deliberately along a set of bookshelves lining the wall, stopping before a stand which held an open volume, and perusing the pages.

"Was there something further?" Norrington snapped at last, against his better judgment.

"Have you ever studies the legends of the sea, Commodore?" Beckett responded, half-turning toward him. "The tales told by sailors?"

Norrington strode to stand beside Beckett, and almost laughed with relief at the picture Beckett indicated. An old woodcut, depicting the legendary _Flying Dutchman_. "No, sir. I'm afraid myths have never been an interest of mine."

"Ah. Pity." Beckett studied the illustration a moment longer. "I find the subject fascinating."

Norrington restrained a snort with difficulty. If this man had ever had to face the _true_ monsters that roamed these waters he wouldn't be so eager to learn more about them. Undead pirates and carnivorous sirens tended to wreak havoc on one's interest in the uncanny. Beckett changed the subject somewhat abruptly.

"I captured Sparrow once, you know." He rubbed his hands together, eyes distant. "Yes. Years ago. But he escaped, of course. An...interesting man." He looked at Norrington's chest, then took a step back so he could more comfortably look into his face. "Indeed, it was he who first inspired my interest in...sea tales. A remarkable sailor."

For the life of him, Norrington couldn't understand what point this could possibly have. "Yes?"

"He shared no such tales with you?" Curiously insistent. "No local lore?"

"No." Certainly nothing he was willing to tell Beckett.

"Ah." Beckett seemed disappointed but said no more on the subject. "Well, I shall be making my report to the Company, of course, and to the Admiralty." A tiny, anticipatory smile. "I am sure they will wish to send someone to deal with the – ah, shall we say, situation? – here, someone with the broad authority necessary to take things in hand."

His tone left no doubt in Norrington's mind that Beckett hoped to be the one granted this broad authority. Not trusting himself to speak, he bowed shortly and walked to the door.

Just as he put his hand on the knob, Beckett said, "Of course, if Sparrow is captured it might prove a mitigating circumstance at your court-martial. Although, this is twice – no, three times, correct? – that he has escaped from you. One might think," Norrington's hand tightened on the doorknob, "that he had aid from...well, someone with influence. Which is inexcusable, however fine a sailor he may be."

Norrington laughed shortly, bitterly. "A fine sailor – sailing with a broken compass, a crew of lunatics, and a rapacious soul. Indeed, his escape is inexcusable." He opened the door and started through, but Beckett was there, hand on his arm, face urgent.

"A...broken compass, did you say? How is that? Did you – get a good look at it?"

Taken completely aback, Norrington answered honestly, "It doesn't point north. I've handled it once or twice – Sparrow keeps it on him. Sentimental value, perhaps."

"Sentimental – yes, certainly. Of course, the man is quite mad." Beckett stepped back, eyes hooded, and nodded in farewell. Still confused, Norrington left the office, shutting the door behind him. Beckett remained where he was until a door at the far end of the room opened silently to admit his henchman.

"Ah, there you are, Mercer." He smiled.

Without any change in expression, Mercer asked, "Have you had good news, sir?"

Beckett whistled a complicated tune under his breath, deep in thought. Finally he answered, "Why, yes. Very good news indeed, valuable information, if not quite the information I was searching for." Mercer waited quietly. "A certain very special compass appears to be in the possession of Captain Jack Sparrow."

Beckett moved to the book stand and stared at the woodcut, lovingly tracing the lines of the _Flying Dutchman_ with one finger. "Commodore, Commodore," he whispered. "You have had a great treasure within your grasp, and you never realized it."


	12. Epilogue

___**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, I claim nothing, I'm just having a drink, not looking for a fight. Please don't sue._

_**A/N:** This is a story I wrote before the third movie came out. It is SLASH (male/male relationship). Don't like, don't read._

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**Epilogue**

"Miss Swann." Norrington paused at the door of the Governor's study, almost turning tail. Miss Elizabeth Swann was the last person he wanted to see on a day already brimming with emotional turmoil. He raised one hand to his unshaved chin and rubbed it ruefully.

"Commodore." Elizabeth smiled, hesitantly, as embarrassed as Norrington at their unexpected meeting. "Please, do not leave on my account."

"I'm afraid you are mistaken," he said dryly, coming into the room.

"I – beg your pardon?"

"I am no longer a commodore," he clarified. "I resigned this morning, and came here only to give your father my official letter and the statement of the fort's condition."

Elizabeth opened her mouth, and then looked away, biting her lip. The Commo – Norrington's rage at learning that the _Black Pearl_ had left Caribbean waters was common knowledge. "I'm sorry," she said softly. Faced with a choice between letting Jack Sparrow slip away across the Atlantic and remaining with his commission, Norrington had chosen to abandon what was left of his shattered career.

"Please, be seated." Elizabeth gestured to a chair and sat down on the window seat, spreading her wide skirts neatly. Unable to resist, she faced him squarely and burst out, "But why? Is it so important to you, to bring Jack Sparrow down?"

Norrington sighed. Elizabeth, intelligent, spirited, far from conventional – and far from kind. Taking her into his confidence would be awkward, quite possibly idiotic. Yet his loneliness, his need for a friendly ear, was overwhelming. "It is a question of betrayal, of – of having trusted – of offering," oh God, this was harder than he'd expected, "my – my affections, even though I knew they were not returned." He mused on that for a moment. Had he thought the mermaid's price was only water?

"Oh, James," she said, softly, and there was only sympathy on her face rather than the disgust he'd feared. "But even if you ever catch Jack, will hanging him give you any comfort?"

"I do not look for comfort. My situation is my own fault." He believed that. During the long nights that left heavy bags under his eyes, he had run over the mistakes, the unforgivable personal and professional mistakes, which had led to his fall from grace. Certain memories, endlessly retraced, still brought heat to his solitary bed, and he knew that some mistakes he would make again. He rose only to drink, to seek oblivion, but drink brought with it suspicion and queasy doubt. Perhaps Jack had twisted his reason as coldly and deliberately as his murderous kin, baiting him with unnatural desires. He had always looked on sodomy with the distant disgust reserved for other men's weaknesses, other men's temptations. And he and Jack were enemies.

Sober and sick in the morning light, he reclaimed his guilt but found that it inspired anger more than remorse. When he found Jack he would – shoot him, seize him, listen to his voice? He didn't know. But he had to find him, to outwit him, to retrieve his pride, to prove that he was more than a pawn in this strange game being played out over the surface of the deep.

Opening his eyes, taking a deep if shaky breath, he said softly, "I'm lost, Elizabeth. I no longer know what direction to take. I don't even know what direction I'm going." He gave her a crooked smile, tried to hide the bitterness. "I only know that I must find him if I am somehow to find my way."

"I don't know what to say, James." She smoothed her skirts and took a deep breath. "What I did to you – yes, it was a betrayal. When I joined Will to defend Jack – oh, James, I could not have done anything else. But the manner in which I broke our engagement has brought you so very much pain, and it is my fault, not Jack's." She looked at him pleadingly, only to meet an expression of blank incomprehension.

"Oh." He realized that they had been talking at cross-purposes, and it was too much. He began to laugh out loud, laughed long and hard, twice a fool for lust. Elizabeth gaped at him. Perhaps fortunately, the Governor chose that moment to enter, and the chance for confidence was lost.

Lost and better so, he thought much later, swinging in his cot as his hired frigate chased the _Black Pearl_'s wake through the Mediterranean. He would have been insane to pour out his heart to the Governor's daughter in a moment of weakness. There was no doubt in his mind that Elizabeth would use the information to her advantage if she had need. He wasn't sure he could blame her. He had charted his course by duty and honor, virtue and pride, but he was adrift now. It was his own compass that had broken, the seas about him rough and undefined, the stars elusive. His search for Jack had become the only constant.

As he slept, he thought he smelled hibiscus and rum, and dreamt that he was finding north.


End file.
